


Oblivious

by cyoctrix



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cock Warming, Established Relationship, Frottage, Gentle Condescension, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 10:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19904143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyoctrix/pseuds/cyoctrix
Summary: Harry is too embarrassed about his kinks and has Tom obliviate him after every time they have sex so he won't remember what he asked for.





	Oblivious

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the Tomarry kink meme, but I liked writing it enough that I want to post it here. This is pure smut, guys. You get what you click for. \o/

"Tom, I need to talk to you."

This conversation - the different ways it could play out, the way he'd start it, the way they'd finish it - had been on Harry's mind long enough that his building tension had induced Tom's singular brand of curiosity, that lean presence like a benevolent wraith upon Harry's person as the day had progressed. Neither of their behaviors were particularly conducive for any actual work getting done, so it's now, when Harry has poured for both of them their fifth cup of tea, that he finally speaks up.

Already, though, Harry regrets saying anything. Tom's hands go still when Harry speaks those dreaded words, the single sugar in his tea left to dissolve without the help of that ready spoon. (And, oh, even in this Tom has such an elegant touch; his first two fingers bent just so, prominent knuckles tantalizing in a way Harry could probably never put to words without feeling like a lovesick fool.)

"It's nothing bad. Well, it's not - not really bad, more, er, strange." Unruly hair is swiped back, clenched, and released in short order as Harry tries to find his equilibrium, the distraction of Tom's proximity certainly not helping. "I'm sorry, I should have waited until you'd at least finished making your tea. Did you need more sugar?" 

Ever cordial, Tom doesn't speak until Harry is through with his fretting, though an indent at the corner of his mouth hints at amusement otherwise well-concealed. The clattering of a spatula on the counter precedes a box of sugar cubes meeting Tom's palm, Harry's hand less steady than usual. Very curious.

"No," Tom answers eventually with a lackadaisical roll of one shoulder, setting the box aside despite his readiness to catch it. He turns so he's bodily facing Harry, hip meeting counter, but dips his chin down and to the side so he can watch his lover only peripherally. "Is this a conversation you want to have in the kitchen, or would you rather sit down? You look like you might just faint." He sips pointedly at his tea.

A steady flush works its way up Harry's neck, but the advent of this exchange in truth stops his voice, a thick swallow doing little to ease his nerves. Green eyes dart up to lock first on the jut of Tom's hip supporting that lean, then at that loose-fingered grip on his tea, and then at the those crossed ankles. Tom is walking sin; Harry is sure of it.

It's unfair that Tom can be so measured and unconcerned when, right now, Harry is anything but. A feeling like vulnerability licks a heated stripe somewhere along Harry's navel - it's this that grants him his voice, though it's a bit more airy a voice than he intends.

"Sitting down. Yeah, okay." A real intelligent response, that. Harry belatedly realizes, when he spots Tom's widening smirk, that he neglected to address the latter. "I'm not about to faint, though, you tosser. This is important, not that you seem to care for it." 

Even as Harry's frustration mounts, that heat only builds (curious, that - it's almost a linear progression). To conceal the evidence of it, he pushes off the counter and strides into the living room only to stop at the hearth with a stilted shift of his shoulders so that he's angled away from Tom. Tom, meanwhile, follows at a meandering pace as though to make yet another unspoken point through their juxtaposed placidity - in Harry's case, a lack thereof - claiming his preferred armchair with an exhale borne of something significant Harry can't identify.

"Come here, Harry," Tom murmurs lowly, his baritone near a croon, setting his tea aside and gesturing with an outstretched hand: an offering. There's a moment when neither of them move, their stalemate a roiling churn for Harry and a sea of calm for Tom. When calloused fingers meet smooth palms, though, their currents meet in the middle… and then Tom *pulls*.

"Cor, Tom, careful!" Harry scrambles to set his cup down without upsetting its contents, ceramic clinking against the glass of side table as Tom shifts his hold from Harry's hand to Harry's waist, that touch a hot brand even through cotton. The taller of the two isn't satisfied until Harry is half-straddling his lap, the position awkward only for Harry's reticence to fully seat. Harry continues to bluster, each consonant a sharp and infuriated thing, "I could have spilled that all over yo--"

"I care very much." Tom presses both hands into twin spots just under and to the side of Harry's ribcage, the resulting sound a choked off cough-groan that encourages Tom's burgeoning smile. His features are a study in brilliance, the intensity of his attention rivaling Harry's inability to put his long-awaited thoughts to spoken word. Somehow, though, rather than clamming him up completely, this is how Harry is steadied. This is Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle's hands on his body, Tom Riddle's legs beneath his, Tom Riddle's eyes taking him in with such heated fervor. If anything is going to shake Tom's single-minded fixation, it's not going to be a relative whim like this.

Now that Harry is more than willing to speak, though, it seems Tom has found his own voice, his own aim, and he gives Harry no quarter in the expression of it. 

"But, Harry, you're jumping to nefarious conclusions again... and you need to be still." One of Tom's hands slides down with increasing pressure from Harry's waist to his hip, hitching it forward so there's no choice for Harry but to lurch into Tom not to fall, hand bracing against the other's middle. "Be silent." Tom's other hand moves up to cradle the back of Harry's neck, punishingly firm. Harry, words unformed on parted lips, is wrenched further into that embrace so the side of his face is pressed against Tom's sternum.

".…and listen."

Harry's breath leaves him in a gust, his form melding about Tom like so much putty. And, oh, the safety of those fingers burrowing into his hair, nails bearing into his scalp (lightly, and then less lightly, and *oh*), eliciting a sensation just this side of pain before smoothing it over, assessing, and then tugging back on the adjoining strands. God. Tom's heartbeat is a rapid staccato to rival Harry's, which makes him feel a shade better - he is not solely affected, at least. Tom is just better at hiding it. Their breathing meets as their hands did, in the middle; a steady in-and-out on familiar counts of unspoken four grounds Harry in a state of enforced calm. It's lovely, and moving sounds like the worst idea ever, but there really was something Harry wanted and - well - it's really hard to think like this.

When Harry finds it in him to shift his arm from its place stuck between them and straighten in order to speak, Tom doesn't initially allow it. He's a barricade of arms and iron will. Only when Harry stills and slackens again does Tom give him leave to turn his head. That's all he permits.

"Thank you." Muffled as it is, quiet as it's spoken, Tom feels Harry speak more than he hears it, the motion of a mouthing heat at his chest quickening his heartbeat in a fashion not missed by the other. It's a shared vulnerability, this position. Tom never had to learn to consciously regulate his heartbeat, his visual lack of tells too pristine to merit any doubt of his sincerity. The thought, a fleeting thing, passes as soon as it came. He doesn't need to learn. Harry seems to have his heart in a vice too tight to allow Tom any form of obfuscation. And how *sentimental* this thought is. It doesn't show on Tom's face, of course, but Harry must feel it. (Harry, Harry, Harry.)

Tom doesn't reply, but he doesn't need to. His silence, his affirming hold, is answer enough for them both. Harry takes one more moment to collect his thoughts before he speaks, the words coming more easily than they might have if he'd still been avoiding Tom's eye in the kitchen.

"I want to try something with you. I think-- I think now that maybe you'd like it, too." Harry sighs, his cheekbone meeting clavicle as he sweeps his gaze upwards. The two of them lock gazes. "Er." Harry ducks his face back down, laughing self-deprecatingly. "I'm not sure, but judging from… this, I-- just hear me out, would you? By that, I mean, don't say anything yet." 

Tom acquiesces in silence and lets Harry talk. Harry's voice is a welcome susurrus against his chest - an armful of man who is *all his* is nothing to scoff at. There's a pause, as if the lax figure in Tom's lap is making sure there won't be any sharp words or cutting remarks. When nothing comes, Harry smiles into Tom's shirt. 

"I want to, er, sit by you. And sort, of, er--" Harry's fingers curl against Tom's side, the motion an aborted gesture he's unable to make in this position. "Hold you." Tom blinks twice slowly, looking from Harry to their position now so entwined the only way you can surely tell them apart is the color of their clothes. "In my mouth." 

Ah.

"But also," There's more? "I want you to not let me off until you do. But I want that to take a while. Mostly, it's just me wanting to, er…"

"Hold me in your mouth?" It's more effort than Tom could have expected to keep his voice level and seemingly unaffected by bemusement and arousal as he repeats the request. Harry might have even taken offense by the projected deadpan were he not feeling the symptom of Tom's current state pressing insistently against his stomach.

"Mmn," Harry hums in assent, confidence growing as his less-than-vanilla request isn't laughed out of hand. "I'd really, really like to do that. So, er, unless you have an objection, I'll just be doing that, now." Tom, bewildered and titillated alike, doesn't make any motion to stop Harry from sliding bonelessly to the floor at his feet, though his breath does catch as the knelt man cradles his tented erection in a feather-light cage of fingers. 

Oh, but Harry almost forgot.

"Though, er, I actually don't think I could look at you in the face after this, honestly? You're already… … you know?" Harry's talking to Tom's groin as it's slowly unwrapped, his fringe an effective buffer against accidental eye contact. Tom doesn't much like that, but he has an inkling that if he tries to move or adjust Harry in any way, it'd only be to ground his mouth into every part of that tan flesh he can reach… and that's not what Harry wants, right now. So Tom is still. "So if you could, er, maybe… obliviate me? After this, I mean. I'd appreciate it. Else, I'd probably botch the job doing it myself." 

Harry clears his throat meaningfully; the warmth of his hands cupping Tom's groin would make it quite difficult to not accede to the request, if Tom were so inclined. What a darling *minx* his Harry is. "If, er, I want to stop, I'll tap your leg three times."

If it were Tom's first time hearing these words, he'd have had a lot more to say - chiefly, that Harry's memories of Tom should never be something to be ashamed of and that every moment Harry has Tom's dick in his mouth is a moment to be cherished, not cast aside. Tom knows better than to push this now, though, and says none of these thoughts, humming in agreement even as his fingers once more find Harry's hair to clench and tug.

Harry's fingers stutter as they finally manage to forge a path into Tom's robes and pants that allows him reveal that erection and little else. The sight of pale, reddened cock against the jet black of Tom's robes quickens Harry's breath and for that moment, it seems he's forgotten his initial aim. Harry laves the underside with a tongue that curls along the base, breath a hot fan against the length of it. Butterfly kisses are pressed all-too-lightly against Tom's frenulum, the vein running underneath, and finally against the head, a bead of precum smearing itself against Harry's upper lip.

Now that his future dignity is all but assured, Harry is miles less abashed about his current desire, to the point now where when Tom lifts one leg up to rest his foot on the small of Harry's back and slips the other underneath and between Harry's thighs to cradle his bollocks, Harry groans and rocks his arousal forward into Tom's shin without hesitation. 

"Husssh," Tom breaths, a sharp almost-hiss punctuating the 'sh' in a fashion only those with the tongue to speak the language of snakes could manage. Harry has that tongue too, and it's quite a delight to experience it firsthand by one so eager to please. However. "Desssist."

Harry stills open-mouthed with Tom's head poised on his tongue and if that doesn't a paint the most alluring picture Tom ever will see, he doesn't know what would, but. Alas.

"You've forgotten your task. Carelesss." Tom soothes any potential upset his words might cause with a fond but perfunctory sweep of his hand through Harry's hair. "I want you to hold me, Harry. What is your russsh? Open." Harry can't seem to help the way his hips rock into Tom's ankle as he is directed so, mouth opening further. "Wider, Harry. That's it. You'll take it all, won't you?" These last few words come out in a croon similar to the one spoken earlier to lure Harry into his arms. 

Tom holds Harry's head still, cock out of reach of eager waiting mouth. Harry makes a sound of indignation that sticks to the back of his throat much like he wishes Tom's cock would. Right now. His fingers dig into the meat of Tom's thigh, his own thighs clenching around Tom's calves. He can't beg if his mouth is open, not properly. But he can try to *show* Tom just how much he wants it. Oh, how he wants it.

"Yes, you'll take it in so well. You'll be so good for me." Harry tries to jerk forward in order to do just that, but the hand in his hair is unyielding and his eyes smart with the pain of those elegant fingers keeping hold. "But you'll also be still, won't you? Yes, Harry. You'll keep still for me." Some of that iron will from before rings icy-clear in Tom's voice, which has regained its full human aspect with Harry's willful behavior. His arousal hasn't waned a bit, though, no - in fact, he's harder than before, something Harry practically goes cross-eyed to witness.

It seems Harry can learn; only when he doesn't struggle for it does he get what he wants… but only when Tom wants, only when Tom gives. It's not until Harry lets his head rest back against the hand holding his head still and unfurls his fists from Tom's thighs does Tom murmur his approval, his sweet-nothings almost condescending for the fact that he still hasn't breached. "That's very good, Harry. Just like that. Look at you. You're gorgeous like this. You're so obedient for me." Harry must be aching so sweetly, he thinks, that mouth having been open for quite a bit now with nothing to bear down on to ease his discomfort. That's probably not the only place that's aching, either.

When Tom finally begins to ease his cock into Harry's waiting mouth, it's done excruciatingly slowly; it's the furthest thing from a proper thrust Harry can think of. It's exquisite torture, the way Tom rolls his calf and then top of his foot in a motion like a tidal wave between Harry's legs, pressing into his trapped cock, an unsaid 'do not move' tugged into Harry's tender scalp. Harry is still, relaxed, Tom's.

"Very good, Harry," Tom finally exhales, only now allowing himself to brush Harry's fringe back so he can look upon those eyes. They are lidded, half-glazed, and blink with the onset of an imposed lethargy. Harry's arousal is a contented burn, something he didn't think could exist - nor did he think his own need for release could be so shunted for need of a thing so simple as… this. The weight and press of Tom, now sheathed fully, encapsulates his senses completely. 

Harry thinks that Tom's legs bracketing his form, fingers knotted in his hair, and warmth held in his mouth should probably have caused him to panic by now. He's no stranger to bouts of claustrophobia, days and nights spent in that cupboard in youth having had its toll on his willingness to let himself be limited in motion. Somehow, though, this is… good. This is fine. Then, as Tom rolls his leg leisurely against his groin, the top of his foot this time brushing against his perineum… more than fine.

Harry thinks nothing of the disappearance of one of Tom's hands from his person, but when a few moments later he hears the telltale rustle of a turning page, he blinks thrice rapidly to focus his gaze up at Tom. He makes a puzzled noise, which does strange things to Tom's face as the upright man's focus is torn from his reading.

"Be silent, Harry," he chastises, the hand holding Harry's hair squeezing for a breath before he leads that perpetual bedhead to rest on his thigh. "Yes, just like that. Your lust for my cock aside, this wasn't on my itinerary for the evening." The only sign of Tom's discomposure is a very slight breathlessness to his wry voice. Smarmy git. He somehow makes it worse by adding, "There is work to be done. You'll be a really *great* help if you stay just like that, Harry. All you have to do is keep me good and wet. Are you listening?"

Harry doesn't quite know what it is about Tom's gentle words that deconstructs him so, but he can't hide the way he begins chasing the pleasure proffered by that patronizing lilt in a thrust of his cock against Tom's leg.

"Be still," Tom raps out sharply in response, grasping at the underside of Harry's jaw to grip the protrusion of his throat tightly enough to burn. Harry's hips stutter to a reluctant halt, his lower half almost trembling with the pent-up need of his impending release. So close, he wants to say, but doesn't. Can't. God. The cock in his mouth pulses; Harry doesn't know exactly at what, but it has to be him that's doing this to Tom. He's making Tom this hard. Him. Harry.

"Good. Now, you're to be still, be silent, and listen. Can you remember that for me, Harry? Just those three things. Nothing else." Harry can't quite nod, doesn't dare to, but a tentative brush of his fingers against Tom's thigh seems answer enough. 

After that, time seems… relative, to say the least. Sometimes, a hand will brush up against Harry's cheek as though to feel the evidence of what lays so unassumingly within. Luxuriate in it, maybe. Tom's length does soften some after a while - a lack of proper friction will do that - but that infernal leg between Harry's thighs never allows him the same. Whenever the suggestion of a wilt is felt, Tom stirs him to life again in that paced way of his and Harry can't even meet the motions of Tom's leg with his own hips without Tom's hand returning with bruising force to Harry's scalp. No quarter given. The rules were outlined, and Harry doesn't try again after that first time. Second time? Time is relative.

Eventually, the hollow sound of something solid meeting glass table registers. Tom's book, it seems, is finished. When that hand returns to his hair, Harry flinches inwardly, but it doesn't seek to tug in punishment this time. "Up." Harry protests in a low hum, not yet willing to let anything disrupt the haze of withheld want that seems to have taken his head and floated it high, high up. "I said up, Harry. Listen." That cuts through Harry's self-reflection, though not enough to disrupt the arousal; he listens and lets the hand lead him so he's upright in his knelt place. He'd probably sway if he weren't being held so.

Tom can't do anything for a moment but look upon his lover, breath stolen by awe and a wild brand of joy that has his body warming and, in some places, heating. He feels Harry swallow reflexively when Tom's cock swells again and it's all Tom can do not to thrust against that pliant tongue. This is not the first time Harry has come to him with a suggestion broached with shame and voiced in hushed supplication. In fact, it's not even the fourth. 

It's always with the request to obliviate afterwards, though, which Tom has done without argument after that first time's all-too-successful pleading. Tom finds it… perplexingly, mortifyingly difficult to say no to Harry when the other is truly abased, as such, especially… afterwards. Harry is not ashamed of him, Tom knows, but of his… colorful desires, so to speak. Even when these desires are returned (rather passionately, Tom would say), Harry in his irrational mind can't seem to corroborate that with the vitriol spewed in his childhood about what does and doesn't constitute a freak of nature.

This time, though, when Tom looks upon the pure and unadulterated happiness on Harry's face, unshielded to his keen eye, he feels a knot in his stomach tighten and loosen in equal turn. Even as he comes to a decision, he begins to seek his release within Harry's gloriously lax mouth, lazy thrusts increasing in speed and force when Harry deigns to meets him with fierce, undulating suction and a vice-grip of his thighs on entrapped leg. Even if Tom could think to stop now, he doesn't think he'd be able to - not in little part due to Harry's ferocity in the act, his pleasure communicated so effectively it makes Tom see stars. 

Tom frames Harry's face and jaw with fingers bent just so, one hand turning so knuckles brush against cheekbone. They both find release in each other's arms, entwined and holding, and neither could tell the other later who found theirs first. 

When the two men have only caught a fraction of their breath, Tom drags Harry back up onto the chair with him, folding coltish legs still trembling with exertion up between himself and the armrest. Tom's eyes can't keep from raking over every inch of Harry. ("Harry, Harry, Harry.")

"I will not be obliviating you this evening," Tom murmurs, dulcet baritone marred rough by the hoarse repetition of his lover's name extolled through orgasm. Harry stirs at this, as though to argue, but Tom hushes him with a hand swiped over the other's sore mouth. "No, none of that. When you've been fed, watered, napped, and held, we'll have this conversation properly.

"For now, know this: you are mine. I hold dearly to that which is mine, and will do the same that which is yours. I look forward to hearing what more of yours we can explore."

**Author's Note:**

> I love critique, but please be gentle. This is my first smut. If my family and/or friends find this... well, this is real, this is me, and I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. :')


End file.
